


Cold as the Grave

by salamandelbrot



Series: Old School Wrasslesmut [17]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 1997, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandelbrot/pseuds/salamandelbrot
Summary: Shawn visits the funeral parlor to "apologize" for a mis-aimed chairshot.





	

Shawn fumbled with the ring of keys, trying each on the funeral parlor door. They'd damn well better be in here, he'd traded several kisses and a handjob for these keys. And he wasn't above going back and adding a little Sweet Chin Music to the bill if that security guy had stiffed him, either. 

Finally, he found one that fit the lock and, with an ominous creak, the door swung open. Did Paul Bearer spend his days tightening the hinges for the perfect spooky sound or what? Shawn had his suspicions. 

Speaking of Bearer, this could turn into a real disaster if he came back first. But, hell, Shawn would take that gamble, he never was one to play it safe. He stripped down to only his referee shirt and left that hanging unbuttoned, then climbed up on the chilly embalming table, leaning back on his elbows with his legs spread wide, waiting on display for the Undertaker to come home. 

Goddamn, it was cold in the funeral parlor. Not exactly doing his package any favors, he thought wryly, but at least his nipples would be perky. He'd just have to hope Taker was a tit man. He unbraided his hair while he waited, taking the time to fluff it up nice and drape some over his shoulders. He took an assessing look at himself in the reflection on a steel cabinet. If the dead man didn't get a case of rigor mortis in the pants looking at _this,_ Shawn decided, then there wasn't nothing going to make him _rise_ from the grave. 

When the door creaked again, Shawn knew it was his deceased date from the sillhouette alone. Still, he found his heart was pounding. He'd left himself vulnerable. If the Undertaker wasn't interested in his copious charms, it coud be curtains for he Heartbreak Kid. 

The Undertaker stepped into the light, face unreadable. The door swung shut with a click of finality. Shawn swallowed hard. 

"I wanted to apologize for the chair," he said, trying on his best cocky grin, "but I figured you already got enough flowers around here." 

It only took one huge stride for the Undertaker to cross the gap between them. He bent forward and took Shawn by the throat, not squeezing. Not _yet_. 

God, his hand was cold, even though the glove. Shawn had been touched by a lot of uptight cats with cold fucking hands and feet - a certain condescending Canadian came to mind - but none like this. He could feel Taker's palm against his Adam's apple as he swallowed again, hard. 

Weakly, he said, "I was aiming for Bret," as if anyone ever cared who he was aiming for. "You can do what you want, though," he added magnanimously, as his cock grew at the menacing touch on his throat. "Anything you want." 

Still stony-faced and wordless, the Undertaker peeled off his gloves, grabbed one of the greasy looking candles off the little side table, and - he must have had a lighter, Shawn just didn't see it - lit it. 

"Do you-" 

"Hush now." 

Shawn hushed obediently, biting his lip. The first drops of wax fell on his belly. He kept himself quiet until one landed on the conductive metal in his belly button ring, heating it up painfully fast. The Undertaker wiped the wax away with his thumb - cold as the grave and soothing on Shawn's reddened skin. 

He repeated the action on Shawn's collarbones and the base of his throat, making him whimper and squirm. On his armpits, and that _hurt_ , but by then he'd started to get off on letting Taker hurt him a little, he felt like he was showing off by staying still and quiet through the pain. By the time the dead man turned his attention to Shawn's nipples, he was dripping for it. His fingers scrabbled against the sides of the table as the first drops of wax hit him. The cold of the room had been stinging him, making his nipples painfuly hard, and the shock of the hot wax was agony. A whimper escaped him and he hoped desperately it wouldn't make the Undertaker touch him less. He wanted those deathly cold fingers stroking the wax off him. 

He wasn't disappointed. The Undertaker seemed almost gentle with his throbbing nipples, carressing the pain away until Shawn was moaning and sighing for him, forgetting all pretense of keeping quiet. 

When the candle moved down, Shawn spread his legs eagerly. Anything. The wax on the sensistive skin of his inner thighs made him jerk, but he kept his legs open wide until those huge, cool hands replaced the sting. _Anything_. 

He knew what was coming, but he was already wailing when the first drop of wax hit the head of his cock. The Undertaker drizzled a line down his shaft, following it with his hand. Then over his balls, lifting them with a cool, clinical touch to pour more wax from his taint to his hole. All Shawn could do was hope he wasn't crying too ugly for Taker's taste and wait for that cold, cold hand to stroke the hurt away. 

The dead man stepped forwards, lifting Shawn's hips off the table. Maybe it would have been smart to give himself a little TLC before he got here, Shawn thought too late, so he didn't get himself torn apart by a seven foot walking corpse's cock. He clenched his teeth and gripped the table. He'd taken it rough enough from Diesel a time or two, at least this motherfucker would be cold. 

But it was the base of the candle the dead man stuck in him. The sudden penetration made him gasp, but it didn't hurt. He could feel it melting a little, enough to lube him up, with just the heat of his body. He didn't dare buck his hips up like he craved, though, not with it still lit. Barely breathing, he waited for the Undertaker to pull it out of him. 

The lower the flame burned, the faster his heart pounded. He bit his lip to keep the words from pouring out. _Don't burn me anymore, please, I need-_ He was sure that begging would do him no good. 

Just as the heat was becoming painful, the Undertaker jerked the candle out of him. His face was still impassive as he blew the candle out. By some coincidence or trick Shawn's fevered mind couldn't grasp, when the candle went dark, so did all the lights in the room. 

The pitch black of the funeral parlor left Shawn hyper-aware of the cold table on his back, the ghosts of pain where the wax had burned him. All he could hear was his own panting. The shock of icy hands on his thighs made him flinch. Cool, rough thumbs stroked his inner thighs almost comfortingly and he tried to relax. The dead man would do whatever he felt like in the dark and Shawn wanted to let him, wanted to wring some praise from those pale lips. When he felt the huge, freezing weight of the Undertaker's cock between his legs, he breathed deep and lay still for him. 

The thrust inside him was slow and inexorable. He'd never felt anything like this before. How was he so cold? Shawn's gasps and whimpers neither slowed the Undertaker down nor sped him up. It was like getting fucked by a machine, cold and implacable. 

Just as Shawn felt like he was pulling himself together, breathing with the long, slow thrusts, the Undertaker picked up the pace. Without a sound, he snapped his hips forward, fucking Shawn with quick, rough jerks. Shawn arched off the table, mouth open in a silent scream. It was so _cold_ , but he was on fire. 

The only sign of life from the dead man was the slight tightening of his icy grip on Shawn's thighs. Shawn relished it. He worked his inner muscles, pleasuring himself more even as he tried to bring the Undertaker off. Would his come be cold too? Shawn intended to find out. 

The Undertaker's hands clenched tighter and Shawn knew he'd have finger shaped bruises decorating his inner thighs. He couldn't stop the whimpers rising in his throat as the dead man's cold cock pistoned inside him. He kept his hips still, though, not moving except to squeeze the big man inside him. 

One cold hand left his right thigh and Shawn knew he was about to be choked. He took deep breaths, trying to oxygenate his blood. He didn't know how safe Taker was going to play it. 

But instead of the steely cold grip on his throat, Shawn felt the dead man's fingers trace his cheek, coming to cup his face almost tenderly. 

"Good." 

Shawn came so hard he blacked out. 

He floated in and out of blissful semi-consciousness in the silent dark, feeling acutely the contrast of his own hot come on his belly and the Undertaker's freezing cock still sliding in and out of him. 

As he heard a grunt that might have been his name, Shawn felt himself scooped up off the table and flooded with ice. His spent cock twitched between them and he shook in the dead man's cold embrace. The Undertaker kissed along the underside of his jaw, icy fingers combing along his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. 

"Sleep, now." The Undertaker's voice was soft, soothing. Shawn slept. 

When he woke, he was dressed, clean and dry, and he was alone. Taker had even left him a fresh cut lily, stem tucked into his hand. What a gentleman. He slipped off the table and looked around one more time before making his way to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorway and, with a last look back, Shawn reentered the land of the living.


End file.
